


Trusted

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Cronus is Hideously Out of Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Platonic Romance, Sickfic, So Is Eridan, Trust Issues, Vulnerability, i am so so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:04:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1315852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your little dancestor is so pitiful, it makes your chest hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trusted

**Author's Note:**

> take away the internet take away the writing programs take away the pencils and paper do not let me write this shit anymore

Your little dancestor is so pitiful, it makes your chest hurt. 

 

You don't typically have feelings of the pale variant, but you had to make an exception for Eridan. The little kid is just so pathetic-and you said that in the most affectionate of ways- that you couldn't help but want to help him, hold him, keep him safe. He was shunned by all of his own game-mates, shunned and beaten down and hated for making stupid mistakes even though everyone in the game, in both iterations, made stupid mistakes themselves. 

 

He looks so fragile, curled up against your side like a meowbeast, eyes shut behind his oversized glasses and cheeks flushed with the color of his blood. He's ill, again, and he'd come to you, coughing and gasping for air, because no one else would help him. And so you'd taken care of him, again, held him through coughing fits and flushed out his infected gills, soothed and shooshed and made sure he didn't suffocate on his own fluids. 

 

It was a hard job, but not a thankless one, not when he looked at you with wide eyes filled with such gratitude and _trust_ that it made you choke up a bit, and clutched your shirt with trembling fingers and let you take care of him. He thanked you with his actions, with his expressions, with the way he let you in and let you see a side of himself you know for a fact no one else, not even his former moirail, had ever seen. He trusts you with every last fibre of his being, and you hold that trust close and swear to yourself every day that you'd never break it, ever. 

 

You know he wouldn't be able to handle it if you did. He's already been shattered, and it had taken you months to rebuild him, to glue together the little pieces of his psyche into something resembling the troll he'd once been. Months to earn the trust you cherished so much. 

 

He'd gotten himself into unhealthy relationships at a young age, and it had not done him any good. 

 

Thankfully, you are a master at healing yourself (and others) from the effects of such relationships, through a lot of time and experience. You have little to no luck in matters involving concupiscent quadrants, and you don't have much more in the face of pale love, but you are trying your hardest and you refuse to let this relationship sink. 

 

You need him too much, and he needs you even more, because he's so, so broken even after all the long hours you spent painstakingly piecing his soul back together. 

 

He sighs, and curls inwards, the wheezy bubble of his breath ghosting over your neck. His fevered forehead presses into your skin and you reach up and remove his glasses, running a hand through his hair. 

 

You are so, so pale for him it hurts. 

 

 He's so close you can feel it when he opens his eyes, too-long eyelashes brushing against your gills. 

 

"Cro?" he rasps, and you shoosh him, rubbing the base of his horns with your thumbs. He relaxes into the touch and nuzzles your neck, giving a rusty, cracked purr of pleasure. It's a sound he hasn't had a lot of opportunity to make, and it still makes you smile whenever you hear it. 

 

"You're still sick, Eri, you gotta rest," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his hair. 

 

"I don' w-want to."

 

He's balking, whining deep in his throat in a way you know can't be comfortable, and making upset noises. You shoosh him again, but he just hisses at you. You know he's agitated and irrational because he's not feeling well, and that he gets belligerent when ill, so you just quiet him down with head pets and soft words, holding him close when he breaks down in unhappy tears. 

 

You hate it when he's sick, because he gets so miserable and sad, but it's unfortunately something that happens way more often than it should. 

 

"Hush, doll." you croon, lifting him up in your arms and balancing his smaller body on your hip, "Let's go get'chu some water, okay? See if that makes ya feel any better."

 

He wraps his arms around your neck and lets you carry him around with no protests, another sign of his impaired health. Normally, he'd kick up a fuss, ordering you to put him down and raving about how he was not a wriggler to be carried around by his lusus, thank you very much, he was perfectly capable of walking wherever he pleased. 

 

Now, he hangs limply in your arms, chest heaving with labored breaths. Gill infections are the worst. 

 

You set him on the counter and prop him up against the kitchen wall, shooshing him softly when he reaches for you, whining. 

 

"I'm just gettin' you somethin' to drink, Eri," you say, filling a glass with ice and water and, after a moment of thought, plucking a straw out of a drawer on the way back to your palemate, "See? I'm back, it's fine. You're so clingy when you're sick, aren't'cha, doll?"

 

He trills when you touch his face, guiding his chin up and the straw to his mouth. You caution him to take it slow, and he listens, eyes fluttering shut as he sips at the cold water. You can tell he's exhausted even though he'd just woken up less than a half hour ago, but he needed the sleep in order to heal, so you don't comment on it. 

 

Instead, you pick him back up with one arm and cart him back to your human bed- easier to access and get in and out of, in the face of Eridan's illness, and more comfortable than the recuperacoon. 

 

He sighs when you deposit him in the pile of blankets and pillows that had been dutifully formed into a nest over the past few days, and chirrs quietly when you lay next to him, allowing him to burrow against your side. His thin, long fingered hands wrap themselves in your shirt, and you bury a hand in his hair and hold him close. 

 

"Try to get some rest, doll," you murmur, petting his hair, "The more you sleep, the faster you'll get better."

 

He squirms a bit before settling with his head tucked under your chin, ear fin against your chest.

 

"Can you sing for me?" he asks, voice quiet and wavering. He gets so nervous when he asks you for things, like you wouldn't kill for him, destroy for him, end your very life to keep him safe and happy. 

 

You press a kiss to the top of his head and croon out a few notes, words falling from your lips softly, morphing into a recognizable tune a few moments later. You sing him lullabies until he falls asleep in your arms, calm, lulled by the sound of your voice and your heart. 


End file.
